Somehow, across the years, across the miles, my old friend Faroukhan had sensed that my moment of truth was coming, and knowing I would fail, had come to repay the old debt, the debt that began with my helping his niece, and was compounded when I left his country carrying an evil native force with me, unbeknownst to him at the time. He had come to help me fight valiantly, with honor, as I had not done, as I had only pretended to do all these years since leaving Afghanistan. How he knew of my plight I know not, but he must have consulted a shaman of some kind and obtained the arrows that would rid the world of the djinn.
I was, I am, an utter fraud, no matter the sort of influence I was under all these years, no matter how confused my mental state when in proximity to the wretched creature. I know that now. I have my service revolver at my side. I have managed to rouse the fire in this room. I have dragged the djinn’s body into the fireplace and liberally doused much of the furniture in this place with oil. I will wait until I have satisfied myself that the thing’s body is adequately consumed and then ignite the room; that will take some hours, but the time has given me an opportunity to write this narrative.
After all else, I think I loved the writing more than anything, more than the money, the acclaim. How small and how sad were my desires.
I shall finish this missive and place it outside, in an envelope addressed to my old friend, Conan Doyle; he may do with it as he pleases. Then I shall return here, touch the flames to the furniture and put my service revolver to my head and do what I should have done in Afghanistan many, many years, and many, many lives ago. Hopefully I will become like Holmes, a thing of fantasy, nothing more than a creature of the imagination.
The Things That Shall Come Upon Them
The Things That Shall Come Upon Them
by Barbara Roden
“Do you recall, Watson,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, “how I described my profession when we first took lodgings together, and you expressed curiosity as to how your fellow lodger was related to certain comments which you had read in a magazine?”
“I certainly do!” I laughed. “As I recall, you referred to yourself as the world’s only consulting detective; a remark prompted by my less than effusive statements regarding the article in question. In mitigation I can only say that I did not realize, when I made those statements, that I was addressing the article’s author; nor did I have the benefit of having seen your methods in action.”
Holmes smiled, and bowed his head in acknowledgment of my words. “Your comments had at least the charm of honesty, Watson.”
“But what prompts this recollection, Holmes?” I asked. My friend was not, as a rule, given to thoughts of the past, and I suspected that some event had given rise to his question. In answer he made a sweeping gesture which encompassed the many newspapers littering the floor of our Baker Street rooms.
“As you know, Watson, I make it a habit to familiarize myself with the contents of the many newspapers with which our metropolis is blessed; it is astonishing how even the smallest event may prove to have a bearing on some matter with which I come into professional contact. And yet it seems that every time I open a newspaper I find myself reading of yet another person who has followed where I have led.”
“Imitation is, as they say, the sincerest form of flattery.”
“In which case I am flattered indeed, Watson, for my imitators are numerous. When our association began there were, as I recall, no other consulting detectives, or at least none who called themselves such; yet even the most cursory glance at the papers now shows that I have, however unwittingly, been what our North American friends might call a trailblazer. Here” — and his long white arm stretched out to extricate a paper from out of the mass which surrounded him — “is an account of how Max Carrados helped Inspector Beedel of the Yard solve what the newspapers are, rather sensationally, calling ‘The Holloway Flat Tragedy’; and here is a letter praising the assistance given by Dyer’s Detective Agency in Lynch Court, Fleet Street. These are by no means isolated instances; and it is not only the newspapers which record the exploits of these detectives. The newsagent boasts an array of magazines in which one can read of their adventures; a turn of events for which you must assume some responsibility.”
“How so?” I exclaimed.
“Your records of my doings have, I am afraid, given the public an appetite for tales of this sort, so much so that every detective worthy of the name must, it seems, have his Boswell — or Watson — to record his adventures. The doings of Mr. Martin Hewitt appear with almost monotonous regularity, and I can scarcely glance at a magazine without being informed that I will find therein breathless accounts of the cases of Paul Beck or Eugene Valmont or a certain Miss Myrl, who appears to be trying to advance the cause of women’s suffrage through somewhat novel means. I understand there is a gentleman who sits in an A. B. C. teashop and solves crimes without benefit of sight, or the need of abandoning his afternoon’s refreshment, while Mr. Flaxman Low purports to help those whose cases appear to be beyond the understanding of mere mortals; truly the refuge of the desperate, although from what I gather the man is not quite the charlatan he might seem.” Holmes chuckled, and threw down his paper. “If this continues apace, I may find myself contemplating retirement, or at least a change of profession.”
“But surely,” I replied, “your reputation is such that you need have no fear of such a fate just yet! Why, every post sees applications for your assistance, and Inspector Hopkins is as assiduous a visitor as always. I do not think that Sherlock Holmes will be retiring from public view at any point in the immediate future.”
“No; I may fairly claim that the demands upon my time are as frequent as they have ever been, although I confess that many of the cases which are brought to my attention could be as easily solved by a constable still wet behind the ears as by a trained professional. Yet there still remain those cases which promise something of the outré and which the official force would be hard-pressed to solve.” Holmes rose from his chair, crossed to the table, and extracted a sheet of paper from amongst the breakfast dishes. He glanced at it for a moment, then passed it to me. “Be so good as to read this, and tell me what you make of it.”
I looked at the letter, and attempted to emulate my friend’s methods. “It is written on heavy paper,” I began, “simply yet elegantly embossed, from which I would deduce a certain level of wealth allied with good taste. It is in a woman’s hand, firm and clear, which would seem to denote that its writer is a person of determination as well as intelligence.”
“And pray how do you deduce the intelligence, without having read the letter?” asked my friend.
“Why, from the fact that she has had the good sense to consult Sherlock Holmes, and not one of the pretenders to his crown.”
“A touch, Watson!” laughed Holmes. “A distinct touch! But now read the lady’s letter, and see what opinion you form of her and her case.”
I turned my attention to the paper, and read:
Lufford Abbey
Warwickshire
Dear Mr. Holmes,
Having read of your methods and cases, I am turning to you in hopes that you will be able to bring an end to a series of disturbances which have occurred over the past two months, and which have left our local constabulary at a complete loss. What began as a series of minor annoyances has gradually become something more sinister; but as these events have not, as yet, resulted in a crime being committed, I am told that there is little the police can do.
My husband is in complete agreement with me that steps must be taken; yet I will be candid and state that he does not agree that this is a matter for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I hasten to add that his admiration for you is as great as mine; where we differ is in our ideas as to the nature of the events. I firmly believe that a human agency is at work, whereas my husband is of the opinion that we must seek for an answer that lies beyond our five senses.
I fear that any account which I could lay before you in a letter would fail
to give a true indication of what we are suffering. However, suffering we are, and I hope that you will be able to see your way to meeting with us, so that we may lay the facts before you. I have included a note of the most convenient trains, and a telegram indicating your arrival time will ensure that you are met at the station.
I thank you in advance for your consideration of this matter; merely writing this letter has taken some of the weight from my mind, and I am in hopes that your arrival and investigation will put an end to the worries with which we are beset.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs. John Fitzgerald
“Well, Watson? And what do you make of it?”
I placed the letter on the table. “The letter confirms my opinion of the lady’s character and intelligence. She does not set down a jumble of facts, fancies, and theories, but rather writes in a business-like manner which yet does not conceal her anxiety. The fact that she and her husband have thought it necessary to involve the police indicates that the matter is serious, for Mrs. Fitzgerald does not, from this letter, strike me as a woman who is given to imagining things; unlike her husband, I might add.”
“Yes, her husband, who believes that the solution to their problem lies beyond the evidence of our five senses.” Holmes shook his head. “I have never yet met with a case which is not capable of a rational solution, however irrational it may appear at the outset, and I have no doubt that this mystery will prove the same as the others.”
“You have decided to take the case, then?”
“Yes. As the lady was so thoughtful as to include a list of train times, I took the liberty of sending a telegram indicating that we would travel up on the 12:23 train. I take it that your patients can do without you for a day or so?”
“I can certainly make arrangements, Holmes, if you would like me to accompany you.”
“Of course I would, Watson! A trip to the Warwickshire countryside will prove a welcome respite from a damp London spring; and I will need my chronicler with me, to record my efforts, if I am to keep pace with my colleagues.” My friend was smiling as he said this; then his face became thoughtful. “Lufford Abbey,” he said slowly. “That name sounds familiar; but I cannot immediately call the circumstances to mind. Ah well, we have some time before our train departs, and I shall try to lay my hands on the details.”
My long association with Sherlock Holmes, coming as it did on the heels of my military career, had made me adept at packing quickly and at short notice. It was an easy matter to arrange for my patients to be seen by one of my associates, and well before the appointed time I was back in Baker Street and Holmes and I were on our way to Euston Station, where we found the platform unusually crowded. We were fortunate enough to secure a first-class compartment to ourselves, but our privacy was short-lived, for just as the barrier was closing a man hurried along the platform and, after a moment’s hesitation, entered our compartment. He was middle-aged, tall, and strongly built, having about him the look of a man who has been an athlete in his youth and maintained his training in the years since. He gave us both a polite nod, then settled himself into the opposite corner of the compartment and pulled a small notebook from his pocket, in which he began to make what appeared to be notes, frequently referring to a sheaf of papers which he had placed on the seat beside him.
Holmes had shot the newcomer a penetrating glance, but upon seeing that our companion was obviously not one to intrude his company on others relaxed, and was silent for a few minutes, gazing out the window as the train gathered speed and we began to leave London and its environs behind. I knew better than to intrude upon his thoughts, and eventually he settled back into his seat, put his fingers together in the familiar manner, and began to speak.
“I was not mistaken, Watson, when I said that the name of our destination was familiar to me. As you know, I am in the habit of retaining items from the newspapers which might conceivably be of interest, or have a bearing on a future case, and this habit has borne fruit on this occasion. An article in The Times from July of last year reported the death, in unusual circumstances, of an English traveller at Abbeville, who was struck on the head and killed instantly by a stone which fell from the tower of a church there, under which the unfortunate gentleman happened to be standing. His name was Mr. Julian Karswell, and his residence was given as Lufford Abbey in Warwickshire. It would not…”
But my friend’s words were cut short by an exclamation from the third occupant of our compartment. He had laid aside his notebook and papers, and was looking from my companion to myself with a quick, inquisitive glance which avoided mere vulgar curiosity, and instead spoke of something deeper. He seemed to realize that an explanation was needed, and addressed himself to both of us in tones that were low and pleasant.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I could not help overhearing you speak of a Mr. Karswell and his residence, Lufford Abbey. Both names are known to me, which accounts for my surprise, particularly when I hear them from the lips of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And you, sir” — he nodded his head towards me — “must be Dr. Watson.” He noted my look of surprise, and added with a gentle smile, “I heard your friend address you by name, and it was not difficult to identify you from your likenesses in The Strand Magazine.”
“You have the advantage of us, sir,” said Holmes politely, “as well as the makings of a detective.”
“My name is Flaxman Low,” said our companion, “and I am, in my small way, a detective, although I do not expect that you will have heard of me.”
“On the contrary,” answered my friend dryly, “I was speaking of you only this morning.”
“Not, I fear, with any favor, to judge by your tone,” replied Low. “No, Mr. Holmes, I do not take offence,” he continued, forestalling my companion. “A great many people share your view, and I am accustomed to that fact. You and I are, I suspect, more alike than you think in our approach and methods. The difference lies in the fact that where I am Hamlet, you, if I may take the liberty of saying so, prefer the part of Horatio.”
For a moment I feared, from the expression on my friend’s face, that he would not take kindly to this remark; but after a moment his features relaxed into a smile, and he laughed.
“Perhaps that is no bad thing, Mr. Low,” he remarked, “for at the end of the play Horatio is one of the few characters still in the land of the living, while the Prince of Denmark is, we presume, learning at first hand whether or not his views on the spiritual world were correct.”
Flaxman Low laughed in his turn. “Well said, Mr. Holmes.” Then his face turned grave. “You mentioned Lufford Abbey. May I enquire as to your interest in that house and its late owner?”
Holmes shrugged. “As to its late owner I admit of no knowledge, save for the fact of his death last year. The house, however, is our destination, hence my interest in any particulars relating to it.” He gazed at Low thoughtfully. “I am not mistaken, I think, in stating that Lufford Abbey is your destination also, and that you have been summoned thence by Mr. John Fitzgerald, to look into a matter which has been troubling him.”
“You are quite correct, Mr. Holmes,” acknowledged Low. “Mr. Fitzgerald wrote and asked if I would be available to look into a series of events which is proving troubling to his household, and appears to be beyond the capabilities of the local police force.”
“And we have received a similar letter from Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Holmes. “It appears, Mr. Low, that we shall have a practical means of comparing our methods; it will be interesting to see what results we achieve.”
“Indeed.” Low paused, and looked from one of us to the other. “You say that you know nothing of Julian Karswell, save for the few facts surrounding his death. Perhaps, if you will allow me, I can give further elucidation as to the character of the late owner of Lufford Abbey.”
“By all means,” said Holmes. “At present I am working in the dark, and any information which you can provide would be of the greatest interest.”
“I am not surprised t
hat you know little of Julian Karswell,” said Low, settling back into his seat and clasping his hands behind his head, “for while I, and a few others who knew of him, felt that he had the makings of a distinguished criminal, he never committed any crimes which broke the laws of man as they currently stand.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying that he committed crimes which broke other laws?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Karswell was interested in the occult, or the black arts — call it what you will — and he had the means to devote himself to his studies, for he was reputed to be a man of great wealth, although how he acquired this wealth was a question for much speculation. He used to joke about the many treasures of his house, although no one that I know of was ever permitted to see them. He wrote a book upon the subject of witchcraft, which was treated with contempt by most of those who bothered to read it; until, that is, it appeared that Mr. Karswell took a somewhat more practical approach to the occult than had been suspected.”
“Practical?” I interjected. “In what way?”
Our companion paused before replying. When he did, his tone was grave. “Certain people who had occasion to cross Mr. Karswell suffered fates which were … curious, to say the least. A man named John Harrington, who wrote a scathing review of Karswell’s book The History of Witchcraft, died under circumstances which were never satisfactorily explained, and another man, Edward Dunning, made what I consider to be a very narrow escape.”
It was my turn to utter an exclamation, and both Holmes and Low turned to look at me. “Edward Dunning, who belongs to the ______ — Association?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Low in some curiosity, while Holmes gazed at me quizzically. “Why, do you know him?”
Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 7